Free The Seersucker Whipsaw by Ross Thomas Page A

wrought-iron fence, and shielded from the elements by a red tiled roof that looked as if it were made out of old London chimney pots split in half. We drove through the open gates to the front entrance. There were no guards; the Marines would come after independence when the Consulate achieved embassy status.
    The receptionist was a brunette with too much lipstick, too little to do, and a St. Paul accent. She summoned an Albertian and told him to escort us to Mr. Coit’s office. Then she went back to her nails. We followed the Albertian down a hall that sported some reproductions of Frederic Remington’s Indians and cowboys and turned left. “In here, gentlemen,” the Albertian said, indicating a door. We went through the door into a medium-sized reception office that was staffed by a small blonde with popped green eyes and a none-too-ready smile.
    â€œMr. Shartelle and Mr. Upshaw?” she asked.
    We said yes and she talked over the phone briefly. “Mr. Coit will be with you in a moment,” she said. “Do sit down.”
    We sat down and Shartelle lighted one of his Sweet Ariels. The secretary kept on typing. The air-conditioner droned away in its effort to keep the room at seventy-two degrees. There was nothing to talk about. We waited with the resigned air of a salesman and his trainee in the outer office of the purchasing agent who hasn’t placed an order in seven months and isn’t likely to do so today.
    After ten minutes the door opened and a man came out. He gave us a quick look, the kind that is given to cripples by people who like to examine the affliction but don’t want to get caught at it. He hurried through the door into the hall.
    The telephone on the secretary’s desk rang. She picked it up and said yes. She hung up and looked at us. “Mr. Coit will see you now,” she said. “Just through that door.”
    We went through that door and into a large office that contained a desk, some filing cabinets with combination locks on them, some chairs, a coffee table, a divan, a man, and a calendar on the wall. The calendar was of the screwed- up British variety with the days of the weeks in the wrong place. Each day that had passed that month was carefully marked out. The even days were marked out in red, the odd days in green. The furniture was all battleship gray and streamlined to cut down the wind resistance.
    The man was behind the desk and he came at us like a rush captain at Phi Delta Theta. There was the firm quick handshake, the bustling around to make sure that the chairs were comfortable, the shifting of the ashtrays to more convenient positions. Clarence Coit wanted us to like him; maybe he wanted everybody to like him, and the best way to achieve that, he may have decided, was to like everybody.
    We got settled in the chairs and looked at each other pleasantly. Coit was as tall as Shartelle, around six-foot-two, and he had smooth black hair that he combed straight back over a wide forehead. His features were regular, his teeth were white, and he displayed them in a slightly crooked, deprecatory smile every chance he got. His nose was only a nose, but his chin was nice and firm and jutted just a bit. He had dark blue eyes that were set under thick eyebrows that had no curve. The pupils flicked here and there. They were restless eyes that gave Shartelle’s suit a frankly appreciative appraisal.
    â€œI’m sorry that Kramer is out, but I’m damned glad you could drop by this afternoon and I hope I haven’t interfered with your schedule.” He had a smooth baritone.
    I let the spokesman of our team do the talking. If Coit was with the CIA, he could match wits with the professional country boy and may the best liar win. I decided to root for Shartelle.
    Giving his elegant vest a tug, Shartelle replied that Mr. Coit surely hadn’t interfered with our schedule, that it was still in the making, and because of the nature of our business